


Nails

by Edonohana



Category: The Collared Knight - Tara McGolden
Genre: Both hands/arms injured, Character apologizes for being sick/hurt, Crucifixion, Forced to witness torturing of the hurt character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Provoking torturer into torturing them instead, Shock Collars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edonohana/pseuds/Edonohana
Summary: When Lio and Farnesse are captured by Ralston's enemies, Farnesse steps up to take the punishment.
Relationships: Farnesse/Lio/Ralston
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Nails

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



Lio had felt so safe with Farnesse beside him that it had never even occurred to him to notice that he did. _Farnesse_ had noticed, no doubt, and had added a little extra wariness to his ever-present guard. But Lio hadn’t thought his errand would put him in danger at all. He could barely remember what it had even been now, his thoughts forcing themselves through a mire of fear thick as syrup to recall there had been a book he’d wanted to read. That impulse, that errand, that _stupid_ unawareness now felt like it had happened years ago, a decision made by another man.

And here they were, surrounded by angry men. Worse, by cold men. Farnesse couldn’t fight the spell that had knocked them both reeling, nor could Lio think his way out of it. Neither of them had even had time to react before they were both down on their knees, dizzy and weak, easy prey for the men who tied them up in the few minutes it took for the spell to wear off.

Lio tried to occupy himself by figuring out exactly what faction they belonged to, because that was easier than thinking about what they’d already said: that they meant to send a message to Ralston. And much easier than thinking about what sort of message they intended to send.

“You do that,” breathed Farnesse, his lips barely moving. Startled, Lio wondered if he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. But no, it was only that Farnesse knew what he must be thinking. “And keep quiet. Don’t draw attention.”

One of the men walked close to Lio, looking him over the way Lio had once imagined his knew master would examine him, as if he was a possession rather than a person. He touched Lio’s hair, then gave a sharp wrench at his collar. 

Electric pain stabbed him all over, as if he’d been stung by a thousand bees. Lio heard himself scream.

And then he heard Farnesse say, in a tone condescending enough to invite a slap, “Feel good, using a shock collar to make the pretty boy scream? Maybe you can pull a kitten’s tail for an encore.”

The pain had vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving Lio trembling. His skin was coasted with a film of cold sweat. He wanted to tell Farnesse the same thing Farnesse had told him, not to draw attention to himself. But his throat was so dry that the only thing that came out was a faint rasping sound. Their captors didn’t seem to notice, but Farnesse did. He didn’t look at Lio, but he made the smallest head-shake, and Lio knew it had been meant for him.

“You’re a bunch of pampered layabouts playing at revolutionaries,” Farnesse sneered. Lio, who had come to the same conclusion though he wouldn’t have phrased it like that, wasn’t surprised that Farnesse had too. He might not care about the intricate details of politics, but Farnesse paid attention, and he understood people. 

And that was when Lio realized what Farnesse was doing, and why. He tried again to speak, to demand that Farnesse stop trying to draw their anger to him like a lightning rod. But Lio’s throat was still dry, and Farnesse was already in the middle of his third carefully calculated insult before Lio could manage more than a squeak.

“We only need—” the leader of their enemies began, but Farnesse, not missing a beat, raised his voice just enough to drown him out as he continued comparing him to an inbred lap dog.

The leader, his face flushing a mottled red, grabbed Farnesse’s collar in one hand. With his free hand, he slashed it with a knife. Farnesse grunted and went down to his knees, and Lio found his voice at last.

“Stop it! Stop! He’s only doing it to distract—”

“Shut him up,” said the leader, with barely a glance in Lio’s direction, and Lio was gagged before he could finish his sentence. 

Keeping the sharp edge pressed to Farnesse’s collar, watching carefully to make sure he was causing enough pain to make Farnesse sweat and clench his jaw, the leader said, “We only need one of you to carry a message back to your master. The other one _is_ the message. And you’ve just volunteered for that role.”

Lio, furious and helpless, held too tightly to even be able to struggle, didn’t miss the glint of triumph in Farnesse’s eyes, though his face betrayed nothing but carefully crafted disbelief and carefully revealed anger.

The leader sheathed his knife and snapped his fingers. “Give me the hammer.”

Lio flinched, but Farnesse tossed back his hair and said, “You think a broken kneecap or two will stop me from kicking your ass once I’ve healed? Hell, I might not even wait till I’ve healed—for you, I’d crawl to do it!”

A man handed the leader a hammer. Just an ordinary hammer, like Ralston used to tap nails into his furniture. It was surreal to think of it as an instrument of torture and maiming. It was new, the wood pale and the head shiny. Probably it had never been used before. Probably they’d bought it just for this. 

“Put up against the tree,” said the leader.

Lio made himself watch as they dragged Farnesse to a huge gnarled oak and shoved him up against it. He had to observe all he could, to be able to help catch and testify against them later. 

On the way, Farnesse managed to kick one of his captors in the balls, jeering, “If it’s the last time I can do that for a while, I’m glad I could make it count.”

Lio’s stomach roiled with a weird mixture of anticipated horror and shared amusement. Of course Farnesse would do that, and say that. One day, when he _was_ healed, they might even laugh about it together, all three of them.

The leader jerked his head, and his men lifted Farnesse. They struggled with his sheer weight and size, and Farnesse managed to get in a few more blows. But eventually they had him pinned to the tree with his feet dangling in the air and his arms outstretched against a pair of branches. 

Lio was determinedly trying to analyze what it might say about a man that he’d make his subordinates lift his heavy enemy just so he wouldn’t have to bend over too far to break his knees when the leader held out his left hand and said, “Nails.”

Lio thought it was a nickname, until he saw Farnesse stopped struggling and sag, like his flesh was a tent over bones; Lio could see the shape of his skull beneath his face. 

Then, with a nauseating rush of horror, he understood, even before he saw one of the men offer the leader a huge iron nail. Ralston didn’t use anything that big, not even for repairs to the home. Lio hadn’t known nails came that big. Maybe they’d been made just for this.

 _Because Ralston does carpentry,_ the part of Lio’s mind that analyzed everything informed him. _They’re sending a very personal message_.

Farnesse caught Lio’s gaze. His eyes were intent, fierce, the hazel almost swallowed up by black. He stared hard enough that Lio knew he was sending a message, and then Farnesse closed his eyes.

Lio understood. Guilt twisted in him like a dagger at his _gratitude_ for this being Farnesse’s request of him, that Lio not watch. He loved Farnesse for his kindness, even as he was furious at him for thinking of Lio rather than himself even now, when he was about to be _nailed to a fucking tree._

But maybe, just maybe, Farnesse really didn’t want Lio to watch. Maybe he really didn’t want Lio to see his suffering, because he thought it would be humiliating (that proud idiot!) or because it would hurt him even more to see Lio’s horror. 

The reasons didn’t matter. It was what Farnesse had asked of him, and there was nothing else Lio could do for him. He closed his eyes. 

He only wished he could stop his ears as well. He heard the bang of hammer on nail, heard Farnesse grunt and gasp and finally scream, heard the men cheering and laughing, and in spaces between, Farnesse’s harsh, labored breathing. 

And then he heard the crack of gunshots, so close together that Lio couldn’t count them, and the thump of falling bodies. But no screams. It was over too fast for that. 

_Ralston,_ Lio knew. There was only one other person who could shoot like that, and he was nailed to a tree. 

Lio opened his eyes, but kept his gaze down on the ground until he saw a pair of familiar boots. 

He wanted to fall into Ralston’s arms and cry, but that would have to wait. He could still hear Farnesse breathing. Ralston freed him quickly, and Lio himself yanked the gag from his mouth. 

“I’m all right,” he said, before Ralston could ask. “They didn’t hurt me. Farnesse made sure of that.”

Ralston’s lips were pressed into a white line, his hand that wasn’t holding the gun clenched into a fist. But only for a moment. Then he was striding toward the place that Lio hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at; toward the tree.

Lio followed, stumbling, his stomach roiling. He knew Farnesse was alive, but that almost made it worse. If he was dead, he wouldn’t be in pain. If he was dead, he couldn’t know how horribly he’d been tortured.

He looked up. Farnesse was hanging from the tree, his head drooping forward, his long hair wet with sweat and blood. Only a pair of nails through his wrists and another through his feet held him to the tree. His muscles bulged, his entire body a soundless scream of tension. His shoulders were being pulled out of their sockets. 

Lio only saw that for an instant, before Ralston lunged forward, catching Farnesse around the chest and bracing him, holding his weight and taking the pressure off his shoulders and wrists. Farnesse let out a groan that might have been relief or might have been redoubled pain.

“Get the hammer, Lio!” 

Ralston’s sharp order jolted Lio back to his senses. He had to steel himself to touch it, but he picked it up from where it had fallen, not far from the outstretched hand of the leader. Half his head was gone. Ralston had done that, and Lio was glad. 

“I have to hold him,” Ralston said. “You’ll have to take out the nails.”

For a moment, Lio didn’t understand. How was he supposed to take out the nails? Then, sickened, he realized: the same way you always took out nails. That was what the hammer was for.

Lio had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the nail piercing Farnesse’s wrist. They’d driven it between the bones, so his weight had been suspended _by his bones_. It was in so deep, the bloody flesh already swollen around it, that Lio could barely see the shiny head. He’d have to press the hammer against that wounded wrist to get the claw of the hammer around the nail and yank it out. 

Lio felt faint just with the thought of it. “I… Maybe I could hold him, and you…”

“No, you can’t. I’m supporting his entire weight.” It was the strain in Ralston’s tone, as much as anything, that convinced Lio. Even Ralston was physically struggling to support Farnesse. Lio could never do it. 

“I’m sorry,” Lio whispered. Then he laid the iron claw against Farnesse’s wrist.

Farnesse was stoic, gasping and biting his lip till the blood ran, until Lio began to lever the nail out. Then he screamed, harsh and high, a sound that went on and on until he finally, blessedly, fainted.

“Quick,” Ralston gritted out. “Get the rest of them while he’s out.”

Lio felt separated from his body as he pried the second nail out of Farnesse’s wrist, then knelt to pull them from his feet. He wondered if he was going to faint himself. His ears were ringing. 

“Lio,” Ralston said, warning. And Lio bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, and smelled it, and was back in his body again, dropping the last nail and the hammer to the ground.

“You did good,” Ralston said. He grunted as he heaved Farnesse over his shoulders and began to walk with him.

“He did this for me,” said Lio. “They were looking at me, and he taunted them until they did it to him instead.”

“Yeah,” Ralston sighed. “I figured.”

His car was parked off the road. Farnesse came round as they loaded him into it, waking with a jerk and a cry. 

“Easy, soldier,” said Ralston. He laid a hand on Farnesse’s forehead, brushing the hair out of his face. “We got you.”

Farnesse’s glassy eyes searched Ralston’s face. “You kill them?”

Ralston nodded. 

“Oh,” sighed Farnesse. 

He was white and sweating with pain, and trembling with shock. His wounds bled surprisingly little, but his feet and ankles, hands and wrists, were so swollen and bruised that just looking at them made Lio flinch with sympathetic pain.

Farnesse was quiet on the drive back home, so quiet that Lio, who had his head pillowed in his lap, kept glancing from his eyes to his throat to his chest to make sure that he was still breathing, that he hadn’t slipped away from them. Ralston drove like a demon, his jaw set, one arm stretched out awkwardly back between the seats so he could keep a hand at Farnesse’s hip, bracing and cupping it. Lio had one of his own hands atop Ralston’s and the other busy stroking Farnesse’s hair.

Every time the car went over a bump or rut in the road, Farnesse’s entire body would stiffen. Lio’s teeth were gritted in sympathy until he thought the next jolt would shatter them. 

They hit what felt like a rock in the road, and the wheels came down with an impact that knocked Lio forward. Farnesse made a cut-off sound that was halfway to a scream, then said, “I’m sorry.”

“What’re you apologizing for?” Ralston said. “I’m the blind fucking driver.”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about me,” Farnesse said. “I should’ve seen them coming. I should’ve protected Lio—”

“You did protect me!” Lio cried out. “Farnesse, you got hurt _because_ you protected me.”

“And you had to listen,” said Farnesse grimly. “I should’ve been able to kill them.”

“Enough with the shoulds,” said Ralston. “Both of you.”

“I wish it had been me,” Lio said bleakly. 

“I don’t,” said Farnesse. 

They went over another rut. Farnesse flinched. 

“I could go slower,” Ralston offered. “More gently.”

“And take longer to get there,” said Farnesse. _“No.”_

Ralston stepped on the gas so hard that Lio was surprised his boot didn’t go through the floor. 

At home, they carried him to the bathroom first. Lio stayed with Farnesse, leaning awkwardly into the bathtub and cradling his head, while Ralston got on the phone to summon a mage. 

He returned looking both grim and relieved. “We’ve got one coming tomorrow morning. They’re sending her right away.”

Farnesse nodded, his eyes closed. 

“There shouldn’t be permanent damage,” Ralston said. “Just a set of new scars for your collection.”

Farnesse managed a faint smile at that. He seemed more exhausted than anything, lying still and breathing heavily as they cut off his clothes, sponged the sweat and blood off his body and cleaned his wounds, and finally dressed him in his softest pajamas.

Ralston carried him into bed and Lio made him hot tea, and Ralston held his head and Lio held the cup while he slowly sipped it. The effort wore him out, and he was asleep before he’d finished the cup. 

Ralston and Lio looked at each other across him. The tears that had been brimming behind Lio’s eyes the whole time finally overflowed, now that he could cry without making Farnesse feel like he had to comfort him. Ralston held him while he sobbed. 

“He was so brave,” Lio said. “He sacrificed himself for me. I couldn’t stop him.”

Ralston made a sound that it took Lio a moment to identify as a harsh chuckle. “Don’t feel bad about it. Nobody’s ever stopped Farnesse. He’s the stubbornest son of a bitch in the world.”

Lio gave a gulp of laughter, which changed to a gasp when Farnesse opened his eyes and said, “I heard that.”

Unperturbed, Ralston said, “I don’t take it back.” He bent down and kissed Farnesse, lightly but with an intensity of feeling that was a palpable force in the room. “You’re _our_ brave, stubborn, self-sacrificing son of a bitch. And we love you for it.”

Lio slid down beside Farnesse, carefully putting his arms around him. “We do. _I_ do. No one could ever be as brave as you.” 

“Says the guy who pried the nails out,” said Farnesse. “Sorry you had to—”

Ralston put a finger across his lips. “No shoulds, no apologies.”

Farnesse sighed, but it was a sigh of relief, not disagreement. Ralston lay down on his other side, his arms around Farnesse and his hands at Lio’s back. Lio felt the warmth come back to Farnesse’s body and his shaking ease, then stop. He felt the tension leave Ralston’s. And, so gradually he never noticed it, he joined them and fell asleep.


End file.
